Lost in Translation
by ladybalin
Summary: John, Aeryn, translator microbes, and a screwdriver in the maintenance bay. Early S1, pure fluff.


Title: Lost in Translation  
Author: ladybalin  
Rating: PG  
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not even close.  
Setting: Early S1, sometime between the Premiere and PK Tech Girl

Beta: miniglik

Author's Note: This is my first Farscape fic, so I'd really appreciate any feedback – particularly as I just watched the entire series in the last couple of months. The title, of course, is snatched from the movie, and there's more than one pop-culture reference buried in here – this _is_ John Crichton we're talking about.

**Lost in Translation**

John hadn't noticed it at first. And why would he – with rejects from Mos Eisley jumping out at him left and right? Translator microbes were just one blip in the very long list of weird to adjust to.

He first noticed it with Aeryn, of course. He couldn't help it. Every time he looked at her, some small subconscious part of his brain (the part that wasn't still screaming in terror) whispered, "Human." And so of course, he expected to hear English. Though at this point he'd take Spanish, or French, or hell, even Hungarian. Not that he really knew what Hungarian sounded like … point was, human.

"Crichton, hand me that gravchek," Aeryn demanded.

John paused and peered over the nose of her prowler at her. "Gravchek?" he repeated cautiously, stumbling over the unfamiliar syllables. He wondered in what new way he'd managed to embarrass himself this time.

"Yes, Crichton. The screwdriver. The one sitting in your hand," Aeryn spoke slowly, conveying in tone, if not words, that she clearly thought him to be the mental equivalent of Benjy Compson.

John shook his head to clear it. He _did_ have a screwdriver – or the closest thing to it in this part of universe. So why had he heard "gravchek" a moment before? He hoped that the translator microbes weren't dying on him – maybe human physiology couldn't support them.

"Crichton!" Aeryn snapped.

"Aeryn, what did you call this?" John held up the object in question helpfully.

She narrowed her eyes.

John grinned at her. "Humor me?" he asked.

"Screwdriver," she said flatly.

This time, John was ready for it. He _understood_ "screwdriver," but he _heard_ "gravchek." Beneath the meaning of the word, he could still distinguish the actual sound that she made. More than that, he found that if he focused on the meaning of the word, he actually perceived her lips forming the word, "screwdriver," but that if he focused on the sound, he perceived the word, "gravchek." Apparently the microbes affected more than his auditory system. Dubbing would never be the same again.

"Say it again." John ducked under the nose of the prowler and stood in front of her, prompting Aeryn to slip a hand onto her pulse pistol.

"Crichton, we have less than three arns to get my prowler fixed."

"Just say it," John pleaded.

Aeryn, sighed. "Screwdriver," she repeated dully. "Crichton, what is this all about?"

"Screwdriver, gravchek," John said delightedly. "Hear it?"

"Hear what? You repeating "screwdriver" over and over like a deranged malbik?"

John smiled to himself – apparently English had no equivalent for that particular word. "When I speak, what do you hear?"

Aeryn opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, John interrupted, "No, wait. Try this." He caught her hand and placed it against his mouth. Aeryn raised an eyebrow quizzically.

"Screwdriver, gravchek. Screwdriver, gravchek," John repeated into her fingers. He lifted her hand away. "Tell the difference?"

Aeryn frowned slightly. "You were speaking Sebacean," she finally said as her brow cleared.

"Right." John grinned at her. "I can hear what you're actually saying. Man, Noam Chomsky would have a field day. You try it."

She cocked her head at him.

"Say "screwdriver," Aeryn," John pleaded.

"Gravchek."

"Screwdriver."

"Gravchek."

"Screw ..."

"Crichton, this is ridiculous. Is there a point to all this?" She flipped her braid irritably.

John felt slightly hurt. "Well, it's interesting, isn't it? That you can hear the real language underneath the translation? Spanish for Dummies has nothing on this. Talk about total immersion."

Aeryn stared at him blankly.

John struggled to explain. "Look, you've encountered what, dozens, hundreds, of alien species?" Aeryn acknowledged the point with an eyebrow raise. "And so have you ever heard the real language – the stuff people are actually saying?"

"Not everything translates, Crichton. And some species are worse than others." She muttered the last part.

"I'm not talking about names – basic words, common words, the ones that do have equivalents. You've had these Babel fish wanna-bes since birth – surely you've noticed this?"

"I don't … I _didn't _speak much with aliens," Aeryn admitted.

John's breath exhaled in a sigh as he remembered. "Oh yeah. Irreversible contamination. Racial purity. You guys could've given the Nazis a run for their money."

Aeryn turned away from him abruptly to face the prowler. "This is a waste of time. We need to finish this."

He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean …" He drifted off as he felt her tense. "Right." Sighing to himself, John ducked back over to the other side of the ship.

He worked companionably with Aeryn for the next hour (arn – better get used to it) in silence. Things were always easier somehow when he wasn't trying to talk to her.

"I think that's it," he called out.

Aeryn leapt into the cockpit. Flicking a few switches, the prowler's engines started up with a hum. "Good. It's all set," she replied as she powered the ship back down.

John collapsed on a nearby crate and leaned back on his elbows. "What I wouldn't give for a beer right now."

Aeryn climbed out of the ship and sat next to him. "Beer?" she asked cautiously, as if she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer.

"One of the many things that the local Stop 'n Shop doesn't stock out here," John sighed. As he caught Aeryn's look of irritation out of the corner of his eye, he clarified, "Alcohol." That word never failed to translate. Some things really were universal.

"I'd like a fellip nectar," Aeryn offered.

"And pizza," John replied – and as long as he was fantasizing, he wouldn't say no to chocolate and ice cream.

Aeryn looked down at her hands and twisted her fingers together. "That word you said earlier … the gravchek?"

John looked up at her in surprise. "The screwdriver?"

Aeryn frowned.

John sat up. "Focus on the sound not the meaning. I know … there's a drink on Earth. It's made with orange juice and vodka. It's called a screwdriver." He still wasn't entirely sure how the microbes worked – but maybe if Aeryn expected to hear a proper name, they wouldn't translate the sounds.

"Screewdriiver …" Aeryn said slowly as she rolled her tongue over the syllables.

John grinned. "Right! It's the same word."

"A gravchek is a screwdriver?" Aeryn said doubtfully.

He nodded. "One word, two meanings. Can you hear it now?"

"Say it again." Aeryn rested her fingertips on John's lips.

"Screwdriver," he whispered.

Aeryn slowly smiled and it entirely transformed her face. John hadn't realized that she could look like that. "I hear it," she said gleefully.

John smiled back at her. She still had her fingers pressed to his lips. He wanted to kiss them, he realized. Hell, he wanted desperately to kiss her – but he had no idea what Peacekeeper protocol was for these sorts of things. She was just as likely to punch him as to kiss him back. 50/50 shot, he figured. It might even be worth it.

Aeryn's smile had faded and now she was looking steadily into his eyes. John began readjusting the odds. "Aeryn …" he breathed.

She slid her fingers away from his lips. Then the shutters went down in her eyes and she stood up. "Thank you for your help, Crichton."

John jerked back to the reality where he _wasn't_ Captain Kirk. "No problem," he replied to her retreating back. No mistaking that body language – some things didn't need translation.


End file.
